


come to think of it, i'm aching

by k0skareeves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AKA Sansa Thinks Jon Is Hot When He Eats, And Jon Likes To Tell Her That, Angst, As In Being Turned On By Watching Someone Eat, Because Sansa Is Such A Good Girl, Canon - Book, Canon Universe, Cunnilingus, Eating Kink?, F/M, Making Out, Porn With Just The Right Amount Of Plot To Set The Mood, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Smut, There's Also A Little Bit Of A Praise Kink, This Is Set In BookVerse, Which Means There's The Half-Sibling Incest Angst, but they don't know it yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24782794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k0skareeves/pseuds/k0skareeves
Summary: Sansa now longs for his touches, for the soft brush of his fingers against her hand or the small of her back. And she can't stop herself from gushing over him during their evenings together.She knows she should feel terrible about her actions.She tries to.She fails.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 47
Kudos: 235





	come to think of it, i'm aching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SansaRegina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansaRegina/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is set in bookverse. Jon is KITN because of Robb's will. Sansa escaped the Vale and has been at Winterfell for three years now. There's war in the South.
> 
> To Yulia, who said one thing about how Jon is sexy when he eats. Basically this whole fic exists because it's canon that Jon loves eating pussy. Who can blame him, right?
> 
> Also a big shoutout to Anni and Gio for reading this and helping me out 💜
> 
> Title from So Contagious by Acceptance (which is a major jonsa song imo)

They have supper together most evenings, just the two of them, to Sansa’s great joy and also agony. 

It’s joyful not having to engage in polite conversation during the night, especially when she’s already so busy throughout the day, talking to everyone about everything. Being Lady of Winterfell is hard work and she wonders if her mother sometimes felt overwhelmed by the title the way she does.

It’s agony to endure how her body wantonly responds to Jon while he eats. It brings her great shame, and she reprimands herself constantly for it, yet some things just can’t be helped. Feeling a sense of pleasure when watching her half brother at supper is inevitable it seems, despite her attempts not to stare. There’s just something about the way his mouth moves, lips so pink and plump, something about the way he sometimes eats with his hands instead of using the clutery, as if forgetting he’s a man and not a beast, licking his fingers when he’s done. She feels herself blush as she attentively watches his tongue dart out, right before his lips latch on his thumb, giving it a quick suck, and the wet sound of the act makes her breathless.

Sansa knows she shouldn’t encourage their nights together. Jon is the King and it’s important that he partakes in conversations in the Great Hall. It’s important that he bonds with the people, that he shows leadership during these hard times. The South is at war. Cersei Lannister fights against Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons, and the reports say things are not looking good for the Lion Queen. So far, the North has been left alone, with Robb’s will serving to further solidify Jon’s position as King in the North. The lords and ladies were wary of him at first, but with Sansa by his side things seemed to be going well. Still, as the threat of war hangs in the air, she knows they ought to be more focused in keeping the Northern people as unified as ever, and that demands time and dedication.

And yet, Sansa holds their nights together dearly. Jon seems to be fond of them as well, whether they spend it in a comfortable silence or quietly discussing the happenings of their days. Her half-brother is the one that first suggested they ate their supper privately, after a particularly difficult day of council meetings and battle strategies. Jon is keen on getting the Free Folk fully on their side, worrying about the threat from beyond the Wall just as much as he worries about Daenerys’ dragons. The Northern lords are not as convinced. That has led to a series of arguments that Sansa tries her best to appease, without undermining Jon’s authority.

Today has been such a difficult day, with a lot of tension between Jon and the lords, and now Sansa watches as he seems to pour his frustrations on the food, tearing apart a chicken breast with both hands, immersed in thought. He eats to get sustenance, seeming to get little pleasure from the act, eagerly chewing piece after piece then chugging it all down with ale, not giving her a single glance in the process. Which is absolutely fine, considering it allows Sansa to have a look at him for as long as she wants. She barely touches her food, like most nights, too distracted by the movement of Jon's lips and hands and jaw. They sit side by side in his solar, the fireplace lit and a handful of candles surrounding them, him being close enough that she could reach out and clean the few bread crumbs stuck on his beard. Inside her there's this urge to do it, to touch him, and let him touch her, with his hands and his mouth. Not for the first time she wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

She wonders if he would be as rough with her as he is with the food.

She knows she shouldn't wonder about such things.

For the longest of times she stopped viewing kissing and touching as something good. Her years with Joffrey and then with Petyr and Harry had taken away the beauty of such acts. But since she found her way back home, to Winterfell and to Jon, something has shifted inside her. Sansa now longs for his touches, for the soft brush of his fingers against her hand or the small of her back. And she can't stop herself from gushing over him during their evenings together.

She knows she should feel terrible about her actions.

She tries to.

She fails.

Jon finishes eating, licking his lips and sucking on his fingers before grabbing for the ale again, chugging it down to the last drop and placing it back on the table with a tud. He picks up his napkin cloth and cleans himself, a small sigh leaving his lips. He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them, his gaze coming to find her. Sansa feels caught, her cheeks reddening, and she gives him a shy smile. He returns it, then shakes his head, a small chuckle escaping his lips.

"I did it again, didn't I? I'm sorry."

The sound of his voice startles her. Sansa frowns at him, confused. "What for?"

"My manners. You're a lady,  _ the  _ Lady, and here I am, behaving like a brute. I don't think I said two words to you during supper, and once again I've eaten with my hands. That's not very king-like, is it?"

"Robert Baratheon would disagree with you."

He looks surprised for a moment, and then laughs at her joke, openly and widely in a way she hardly ever sees him do. It pleases her, to be the cause of his happiness. It shouldn't, not in such a way. But Jon is always so sweet to her. The sweetest anyone has ever been, in a long while. Even when she was still Alayne, people's kindness towards her always came with a second motive behind it. Jon has only ever been sweet, never once expecting anything in return. From the moment she set foot back in Winterfell, he treated her with kindness and adoration, sweet words and sweet touches and sometimes she almost forgets about him being her half-brother.

_ Would it be sweet to kiss him? I bet it would. _

Her cheeks burn from her thoughts. She laughs along with him, indulging herself, even though she shouldn't, even though it's wrong of her, to feel so  _ good _ from being the reason behind his amusement. Yet it seems this too is something that can't be helped. Whenever Jon is pleased with her, whenever he compliments her or praises her for something she's done, she feels this strange sense of euphoria go through her body. It's another thing to feel ashamed for, when she's alone in her chambers at night, and she chastises herself for it deeply. 

Yet the feeling remains.

He reaches for the ale and pours some more in his cup, his laughter dying down as he drinks. He pauses for a moment as his eyes lower to her plate.

"Are you alright? You've barely eaten anything."

Sansa looks down to the contents of her meal, embarrassed. "I'm fine, I'm just not that hungry." It's a lie, she's famished, just sadly not for food. Jon gives her a look, a small frown between his brows, but he says nothing else. She watches as he brings the cup to his mouth again, his throat moving with the swallowing, his lips wet and shining from the ale. She doesn't care much for the drink, prefers a glass of wine or simply just water, but she would gladly drink her share of it if it meant getting a taste of Jon's lips.

"Is there something on my face?"

She looks up at his eyes, confused. "I’m sorry?"

He rubs a hand against his mouth and beard. "You keep staring at me. It seems that I have made a bigger mess of myself than usual."

Sansa knows it's rude to stare, she knows her thoughts are wrong and wanton and sinful and still she just can't help herself.

Reaching forward is inevitable.

Cupping his face is unavoidable.

Kissing him is necessary.

She  _ needs  _ to taste him. So she does.

It's a very soft, inexperienced kiss, that has her trembling with want. She tastes the ale on his lips, and although it shouldn’t feel so sweet, it does. Her body is taken by a heat unknown to her, and it's only when Jon's hand touches her elbow that she realizes what she's doing.

Pulling away, embarrassment and shame overtake her. She feels her cheeks at flames. "Jon, I'm- I'm so sorry, I don't know what-"

The words are left unsaid as Jon's lips come to her, silencing her with a kiss of his own. His right hand moves to her lower back, tugging her closer. His tongue darts out to taste her and she opens up for him. His left hand goes to her hair, and she feels a shiver as he gently tugs on her locks.

Jon kisses her slowly, taking his time, his tongue exploring, his teeth softly biting her lips, still, there's this sense of urgency between them, a need to make the most out of this moment before it ends, for surely it must end at some point. It's so very wrong of them to be doing this, but Sansa can't find it within herself to care. She only feels Jon, only knows his touch, only craves his lips, and she wants to be closer, so she moves, bracing her hands on his shoulders, not breaking the kiss as she leaves her chair to reach for him. She places her knees on his sides, settling herself on his lap, straddling him. It is unladylike and wanton and not proper in the slightest and she  _ likes it.  _ Jon seems to feel the same for his arm wraps around her waist, holding her down more firmly against him. Her center presses against his crotch and she's hit by a surge of pleasure, making her moan into his mouth. Her body feels as hot as flames and she rubs against him once more, chasing that feeling. Jon’s arm tightens around her, stilling her movements.

"Stop that."

His voice is hoarse against her lips. She opens her eyes to look at him, yet his are closed. His lips are as pink as she's ever seen them, and the frown between his brows has increased. She reaches her hand up, gently pressing her thumb there to soothe him and Jon lets out a sigh.

"Why?” She asks him, voice small. “Am I hurting you?"

He opens his eyes at her words, his pupils so wide she can barely see the Stark grey in them.

"No, it's not that."

"Then why?" And she attempts to move her hips again, chasing that pleasurable feeling despite Jon's hold on her. He closes his eyes once more, a groan escaping him, and tightens his arm around her waist.

"Just stop, Sansa. I can't- this is wrong of us already. I need to keep some of my restraint and I can't do it with you moving like this."

_ This is wrong of us already.  _ Jon's voice is the voice of reason, she knows. She knows they shouldn't, knows the gods must be angry with them already. She used to be so good at behaving, at doing what she’s told, so good at knowing her place. She used to be better. Why can't she be better now? For him, she must try.

"I'm sorry." She tells him, lowering her hands from his shoulders, her eyes cast down. She's so wicked for wanting him, why is she so wicked and wrong? Guilt and shame overtake her. "I didn't mean for this to happen. Let me go and I'll leave."

But Jon's arm stays wrapped around her, his left hand leaving her hair to cup her cheek, thumb caressing her gently. She looks up at him, still uncertain. "Jon?"

"I can't do that either."

There's a moment of silence, where Jon's gaze alterns between her eyes, her mouth and her throat. His thumb continues to caress her, coming to trace her lips, gently opening her mouth while doing so.

"I'm a sick man, Sansa." He tells her, thumb pressing against her lips. On impulse, she opens her mouth and darts out her tongue to taste him while he talks. "There's something wrong inside of me, something rotten that stayed once I was brought back." He pushes his thumb inside her mouth, dark eyes locked with hers, and Sansa sucks on it dutifully. She wraps her tongue around it, tasting a hint of chicken from their supper, and some ale too. "I am sick and I am selfish and I wanted you to myself from the moment you came through the gates on that dying horse."

He pulls his thumb out of her mouth with a pop, smearing her own saliva against her lips.  _ He wants me.  _ She feels her body trembling. He wants her, even if it's wrong, even if he shouldn't. He wants her, and he is the King. If a king can't have what he wants, who can?

She feels bold enough to speak. "Take me, then."

"I'm your brother."

_ "Half  _ brother."

He lets out a low chuckle. "And that makes it, what, only half wrong?"

There's silence again. Sansa doesn't have an answer for him. She can't justify this, can't justify her immoral desires, yet knowing that she's not alone, knowing that Jon wants her just as badly, seems to change things. Why should they deny themselves, after everything they've endured, after everything they've lost? Why should they care about the wrath of the gods when they had failed them both so many times?

She leans forward slowly, her lips brushing against his. Her hands move back to his shoulders, gripping him hard. "Tell me this feels bad, and I'll stop." She's not strong enough to push him, but he allows her to move her hips again, rubbing herself on his hardness, the pleasure flowing through her. She moans into his lips and he groans, taking her mouth. His hand is back on her hair, and she mimics him, lifting her own to grab at his dark curls. He kisses her with more intent this time, roughly, but still sweet, in a way she knew he would.

Sansa tugs at his hair and that earns her a groan from him. She does it again, more forcefully this time, and he breaks the kiss, a breathy  _ fuck  _ escaping his lips. The filthy word gives her a thrill. His mouth is on her chin, and he tugs at her hair, forcing her to expose her neck to him. Jon's lips and teeth explore her throat, sucking and biting, and she arches her back, pressing herself harder against him. A loud moan escapes her, and he stops, bringing his lips to her ear. "Sit on the table."

She feels hot and flushed and confused. "What?"

He places both hands on her waist, looking at her eyes now. "I want you on the table." And he lifts her. She braces her hands on his shoulders again, moving backwards, her bum settling on the edge of the wooden table, scattering the plates and cups left from their supper. Jon is standing now, fitted between her open legs, his tall figure hovering over her. He brushes a strand of hair away from her face, caressing her cheek when he speaks.

"I want to taste you, Sansa. Will you let me?"

She's not sure of what he means, but she could never deny him. She trusts Jon with her life. "Yes."

He gives her a look. "Do you understand what I'm asking?"

She bites on her lip, suddenly embarrassed by her inexperience. She's heard the stories about Jon, and the woman he's been with. Gossip runs loose in a castle, and some of her maids have talked about the wildling King Jon had once loved. A redhead, it seems, like her. Is that the reason why he wants her so? She pushes the thought aside. That was a long time ago. Sansa has been home for over three years, and she's never seen him even look at a woman, not at a lady, not at a servant, not at anyone. _Except for me. He always looks at me._

Still, she shakes her head, too shy to utter her clear naiveness out loud. Jon gives her a smile, and he leans forward, tilting her chin up so their lips brush.

"I want to put my mouth on your cunt."

Sansa whines. Her body is on fire.  _ Cunt.  _ The word excites her. Jon's eyes are so dark. She wants his mouth on her too.

"Whatever you want, your grace."

She never addresses him by his title when they're alone. She's not sure of what compelled her to do so now. It just seemed... _ right.  _ A low hum escapes him and she knows he enjoyed it. That has her blushing, feeling proud of herself for pleasing him.

Jon kisses her one more time, his lips gentle, before he kneels between her legs. His eyes stay locked on hers, as his hands travel up her clothed thighs. He reaches for the hem of her stockings, pulling them down one after the other, caressing her bare skin with his palms. She trembles under his touch. He then pushes the skirt of her gown and shift up to her waist, with Sansa lifting herself briefly from the table to aid him. That leaves her white small clothes exposed. He reaches for the laces, untying them, and she lifts herself once more so he can pull the fabric all the way down.

His eyes are now on her bare  _ cunt. _

Sansa feels herself blushing, her face impossibly hot. Jon's hands are on her, one grasping her calf, the other rubbing circles on her inner thigh. She watches him, waiting, wanting, but he takes his time. He starts kissing her knee, moving up her thigh slowly, sucking and biting and marking her skin. Her breath is stuck on her throat, and she wants to unlace her bodice to try and breath better, but she's paralized, watching as Jon comes closer and closer to where she wants him the most.

He looks up at her one final time, as if waiting for her to say no, as if waiting for a sign that she doesn’t want this, doesn’t want him. There isn’t one. Instead, Sansa moves her hand to cup his cheek, her thumb tracing his lips just as he had done.

_ “Please.” _

Then his mouth is on her.

She rests her hand on his thick curls, her head falling back with the first swipe of his tongue. Jon’s left hand moves up to grab her hip, keeping her steady. His right still rubs circles on her thigh. She’s too hot. He gives open mouthed kisses to her cunt, his tongue lapping at her folds. His nose brushes slightly against her nub and she feels a jolt of pleasure, her hand grasping his curls harshly, a low whine escaping her. He lifts his mouth and sucks on it. Sansa moans loudly, wanting to move her hips, but Jon has a strong hold on her. She twists her fingers in his hair and he groans. She feels his voice against her center.

“By the gods, Sansa, you taste so  _ good.” _

She bites on her lip, suppressing a moan. Happiness overtakes her. He likes how she tastes. Something blooms in her chest as Jon keeps sucking and licking, his right hand moving up. He pushes a finger inside of her.  _ “Oh.”  _ It feels good, so very good, with his mouth and his finger and she feels so hot, too. He pumps in and out of her, the action making indecent sounds, and she burns with shame and desire.

“You’re so wet,” he tells her. “So wet and so sweet, only you could taste this sweet, Sansa.” He pushes in a second finger, and she spreads her legs further, wanting more of him inside her. She speaks without meaning to. “Does that please you, your grace?”

A low chuckle. “Yes, Sansa, it pleases me. You please me deeply, my sweet girl.” 

_ Yours, all yours,  _ she wants to say, but Jon sucks harshly on her nub and she moans instead, so loud, loud enough for it to carry. She needs to be quieter. Someone could walk in, a servant, anyone, someone could find them like this and it could destroy everything they’ve worked so hard to build. Yet Jon keeps pumping his fingers, in and out, faster now, and he licks and he sucks and she feels herself getting closer and closer, nearing the edge. She knows pleasure, has touched herself more than a few times, only ever in the privacy of her chambers, only ever beneath thick furs. She expects it to feel similar and it does.

But also so much better, so much  _ more. _

Her pleasure flows through her. She bites her lip to keep from screaming. Her hips move against Jon’s grasp. His mouth and fingers stay working on her. She’s trembling. The room is too hot.

“Jon, Jon-  _ please.” _

He doesn’t stop. A second wave hits her. Her hand is tightly gripping the edge of the table. The one on his curls twists and pulls but he won’t relent. She releases a silent cry, feeling her walls clenching around his fingers. Her heat is hammering in her chest. She feels as though she might faint. Jon slows down, carefully pulling his fingers out of her. The wet sound would embarrass her if she wasn’t still so blissful. His tongue laps at her a few more times, gently, and then his mouth leaves her. He places wet kisses on her thigh again, his beard tickling her sensitive skin, then he stands, eyes on her, mouth pink and glistening under the candle lights. Sansa doesn’t think she can speak, not yet, so she stays silent, watching him watch her.

He reaches for her mouth, his wet fingers tracing her lips. He presses and she opens, taking him in. Their eyes stay locked as Sansa sucks on his fingers, tasting herself on his skin. It isn’t sweet, like he said it was, at least she doesn’t think it is, but it’s not bad either. He pumps his fingers in and out of her mouth while she licks him clean, and she thinks he’s imagining something else. He pulls out with a pop, his other hand finally releasing her hip, and she knows she’ll probably bruise from his harsh grasp, but she doesn’t mind it. She wants to reach up and kiss him, wants to taste herself on his lips. 

Instead, she waits.

There’s silence. Jon still stands between her spread legs. Her dress is bunched up on her waist. His beard is damp with her wetness. His left hand moves up, fingers tracing through her hair.

“You look radiant,” he tells her.

“Thank you.”

“May I kiss you again?”

His eyes seem to soften at the request. She sighs. “Please do.”

Jon cups her face with both hands before lowering his lips. He tastes like her, only her, and it’s sweeter now, the kiss, herself, everything is sweeter when Jon’s lips are on her. She sags against him, hands on his chest, one over his heart. She wants him, she needs him, she can’t live without him. There’s no point in denying it.

She talks against his lips. “Won’t you take me, Jon?”

“I  _ can’t.” _

“You’re the King. You can do anything you want.”

“That’s no way to rule and you know it.”

His tone is harsh yet she continues to push him. “Then take me because I’m asking you, because I’m telling you to.”

He closes his eyes, frowning. “I can’t, Sansa. You’re a maiden, still. Your maidenhood belongs to your future lord husband.”

That  _ hurts.  _ The thought of moving away, of living somewhere unknown, leaving behind the home she fought so hard to come back to, leaving behind her people, her king, her  _ Jon.  _ It tears at something deep inside her soul. “Will you sell me away, then? To a strange lord I’ve never met, so he can have me the way you refuse to?”

He opens his eyes, his hands flexing against her face.  _ “No.” _

“Then what, Jon? What will you do?”

“I don’t know, Sansa!”

He sounds exasperated. She feels the same. They stay in silence for many seconds, his hands still cupping her face. She slowly breathes in, gaining courage to speak her mind.

“The Targaryens wed between siblings all the time.”  _ The Targaryens also went mad, _ but she keeps that to herself.

“We’re not Targaryens.” True.

“No, we are wolves.” Also true, an undeniable truth. “We’re a pack, we belong together.”

Jon is quiet for a moment, eyes staring at her fiercely. He then leans forward, speaking against her lips.

“Shall I wed you then?”

His tone is challenging. Her voice is but a whisper. “Yes, you shall.”

“Aye.” He says, drily, but there’s something in his eyes. She recognizes it as something she has seen facing back at her in the mirror a few times before.  _ Resolution. _ “Aye, Sansa, I shall wed you. By the gods, I shall wed you. If we survive what’s to come, I shall make you my wife and you will rule the North by my side, everyone else be damned. Does that sound good to you?”

She lifts her hands to his face, mimicking his hold on her. “It does.”

_ “Good.” _ And he presses their lips together.

_ “Good.” _ And she mumbles against his mouth.

And their kiss deepens, half joy, half agony, with just the right amount of sweetness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I would love to read your thoughts :)


End file.
